


but your god prefers you on your back

by insectoid_demigoddess



Series: godworship [2]
Category: Kamen Rider Gaim
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Post-Canon, callbacks abound like they were on sale, ensemble godly entity cast, if takatora was pining what do you call what kouta is doing in this entire thing, moderate abuse of godly powers (i dont know what they extend to and now i care not), no beta we die like god
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:55:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23976361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insectoid_demigoddess/pseuds/insectoid_demigoddess
Summary: takatora ishisresponsibility.(the sentiment is too complicated, despite the bare handful of words, and kouta backtracks.)[post-ep 46; pays paltry compliance to: ep47 & subsequent movies]
Relationships: Kazuraba Kouta/Kureshima Takatora
Series: godworship [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1728640
Comments: 5
Kudos: 7





	but your god prefers you on your back

  
  


kouta had asked for a favor. begged, actually, in an underhanded, needling way. he gets scolded for it,

(mai chides him about taking advantage of a convalescent, but kouta shrugs that off and asks about her visits to micchy's dreams and kaito's tree. it only works as a distraction when she lets it.)

but he has no regrets. especially not when he spies the wistful line of a smile on takatora's face, just before he allowed the waking world to claim him again.

and then takatora lifts the world back onto his shoulders with flint-eyed determination, and kouta startles a flock of winged-things off their perch with how loudly he sighs.

(very kindly, but also very smugly, mai does not say "i told you so". kaito, ever unconcerned with sparing his feelings, _does_ , eloquent as ever with a simple eye-roll and the dismissive rustle of leaves overhead.)

takatora is _his_ responsibility. 

(the sentiment is too complicated, despite the bare handful of words, and kouta backtracks.)

he _cares_ about takatora, the way he cares about micchy, and zack and peko, and the charmant guy and hide. 

still, there's a distinction between them and the beat riders, his sister, the city - more than just "the ones who fought" and "the ones who were protected". all of them who remember him, mai, and kaito, and the zawame city before the fruit of fate rotted in their hands - and all of them who don't are precious and kouta does not regret fighting for them, fighting _with_ them.

he cares about _all of them_. loves them to helheim and back. 

takatora is a little different. maybe micchy would have a clever analogy to explain it, but all kouta has are memories, warm, painful, and _both_ in their own ways. he wishes, wistful and ineffectual like ripples over a surface of water, that they'd had more.

kouta clings to a stretch of sand and surf, to a memory that stands out like a beacon, and the comforting sight of the curve of takatora's shoulders relaxing under the sun.

it takes months, but kouta doesn't complain. kaito, flower buds instead of flaking bark at his fingertips, says they were busy months, and he keeps that in mind so he can ask takatora if he's been sleeping well.

(it's been _months._ kouta knows he _hasn't_ , not enough. the metaphorical door had been shut and locked and kouta sulked at it uselessly when he had the time.)

the plan gets thrown out the window when takatora wanders back onto the beach and looks surprised that it's there, _and_ that _kouta_ is there.

"all this is from _you_ ," he tells takatora, who asks questions with his eyes and the cautious way he walks on the sand more than he does with his mouth.

kouta doesn't tell him that it was easier to make the imagery real because he remembered it too. instead he asks if takatora likes the beach that much, and for his troubles, he gets to hear takatora call him by his first name.

they walk down the seashore, trading memories of beach volleyball and jumping from cliff sides into endless blue pools for shaved-ice ("i wasn't very particular; if it had _anko_ i'd like it.") and sunburn-regrets ("mitsuzane seemed terrified that i was shedding my skin,").

their gazes meet and hold as they talk, and kouta feels the smile on his face growing as they go on. the waves hush into whispers as kouta answers questions about his childhood. as they drift along, the sun overhead gentles; kouta sees takatora's mouth quirk, and spies the same crinkles at the corners of his eyes. 

the dream-visit ends the same way. everything between the sky and the sea blurs into white, and kouta, determined, dares not look away from the expression on takatora's face, until there's nothing to see, until it's the new world's sky he's looking up at.

sometimes, even in waking, kouta catches glimpses of zawame: buildings under reconstruction, people passing by kaito's camphor tree, his sister receiving a slice of cake at charmant. more than once, he's blinked through an afternoon at drupers, and this and the dance stage and gaim's old headquarters are always bright and ringing with voices. 

mai sees the city and their friends, sometimes from afar. she thinks they're micchy's memories, and doesn't seem too bothered by the distance.

they like the bureau's emblem, and know that kaito, in his own fashion and despite his dismissive glances, agrees. "he's doing his best," she says of takatora's efforts.

kouta, who sees more of zawame at odd hours, and who sometimes tastes dull, heavy grief in a slice of black forest cake, wants to say that he's doing just as badly, too. failing, but forging on anyway.

instead, he adds: "he could be sleeping more." 

mai's lips thin into a familiar line and kaito turns to her with great deliberation. in their own unspoken language of looks and raised eyebrows, they have a brief discussion over kouta's head. 

left out and unprotesting, kouta braces for their well-meaning exasperation. between the three of them, godhood has never felt omnipotent, and kouta appreciates the way they keep each other grounded (usually).

finally, kaito pins him with a weighted stare. "you're not his keeper, kazuraba." 

kouta can feel that there's more he wants to say, but kaito breaks away and casts his gaze over the treetops, avoiding both of them now. mai rolls her eyes and bumps her shoulder against kouta's, a comforting shove that pushes him against kaito, who keeps stoically still, lest they fall off their branch.

"you can tell him a thing or two about trying too hard," mai says, a smile in her voice. "but neither of you have all the answers all the time."

it's logic from the heart, and it makes kouta grateful as much as it makes him duck his head in shame, rebuked and reassured in equal measure.

there's not enough clouds to give them shade in the next dream-visit. takatora refuses to sit; instead, he paces in front of the driftwood that kouta has settled on. it's frustrating to watch takatora's back, the way his shoulders tense in the black outline of his suit jacket, so kouta stops and lifts his gaze higher.

at least, he consoles himself, takatora's cheeks aren't as gaunt as months ago. at least there's color in his lips, despite how harshly he bites at it. at least the line of his jaw bears no bruises, or nicks from distracted shaving. 

(kouta tries to imagine him waking up in the morning, and comes up short. it's inexplicably frustrating, a futile whim---)

"what is he meant to learn from this example?" takatora grouses, and kouta hasn't missed that restrained anger, how it winds takatora up tight and freezes what lines the sun has warmed in this private slice of dreamscape. but it comes from a good place, which, really, is what takatora is, through and through.

"do _you_ know what you're teaching him?" he asks, idle thoughts dancing off his tongue. it earns him - something like a snap, a blunt stab of words - and kouta fights the urge to grin.

(at least the light in takatora's eyes hasn't dimmed.)

"that's why you keep trying." kouta rises to his feet, coming to stand close to takatora despite how the edges of everything have begun to scatter out of focus. "nothing's perfect the first time around."

he wants, very badly, to tell takatora more: _you will make mistakes, even now, even still. but you'll keep trying to do better. you'll keep changing._

he doesn't get to, but there's always next time.

takatora says he's gone to a dance show, and kouta presses him for details before he can help himself. he isn't taken aback by kouta's excitement, and that delights kouta so much that it's embarrassing, but that's a thought he has long after takatora wakes up. in the moment itself, takatora indulges him, talking about the beat riders with words he doesn't sound like he uses too often. kouta appreciates that he tries, anyway, and it isn't as if takatora is ever ineloquent. 

though, he pauses, part way, and kouta notices his gaze drop to some point past kouta's shoulder, not quite looking through him but getting there. his mouth opens, he licks his lips, takes a breath and holds it -- and takatora doesn't know he's doing it, kouta realizes. it's his version of scrambling, which is leagues more composed than anything kouta's ever seen. 

it only lasts a moment, and then takatora seems to decide against pursuing whatever train of thought he'd drifted off on. his eyes meet kouta's again, and he says, "the teams are attracting a larger audience. i noticed a flock of high schoolers heading for the stage before classes even let out." his smile is a gentle, barely-there thing that arrests kouta's attention, as it always does, but there's something -- his mouth is still, but kouta hears _something --_

(kouta knows that takatora knows that _this_ \- the sand under their feet, the sea stretching to the horizon, the sun softening the edges of each of their awkward lines - is a dream, of a sort, a kind not easily quantifiable. kouta has told takatora that the dreamscape came from him, and he's kept it to himself how he supports it. here, neither of them can't lie if they don't put work into it.

here, their thoughts aren't entirely their own.) 

takatora does not say: _i should have gone to see you all dance before_ , but kouta feels the impression of it hitting him like he'd walked into a glass door. the laugh he lets loose is wholly surprised, but only partly because of what takatora had said. the dissonance has knocked something loose in him, and kouta ducks his head in what takatora can think is bashful modesty. 

it only lasts a moment, and then kouta's deciding against going after the thought that doesn't even belong to him. he gets to his feet and insists on a private show, just for takatora. frankly, it's barely a _show_ and more of kouta _showing off_ , but still takatora indulges him, attentive but not stiff where he sits on the sand, watching kouta with genuine interest.

kouta does his favorite tricks, jumps, and flips, and a one-handed pose that even _he_ is impressed at maintaining. no omnipotence here, just an old dog with older skills he's happy to have kept.

at the end, kouta lies flat on his back, satisfied with every twinge of pain and exhilaration. there's sand all over him, and while he knows from experience a swim wouldn't exactly _help_ , he's still tempted. he looks over at takatora, ready to call out and try to coax him to go for a dip --

_i should be kneeling at your feet_

a hook sinks into kouta's core, into the space between his lungs 

_i know i don't deserve to_

a rip current tears him from the shore, throwing him into a whirlpool with no sight of the surface

_but i should be_

takatora's fists shake around his knees and kouta feels himself struggling for breath.

it only lasts a moment, and then the sun is blinding them both.

the thing is: kouta doesn't want to humiliate takatora, doesn't want to lord his godhood over him, doesn't want to make it out like his sacrifice was anything grander than a hard choice at the worst possible time. becoming what he is was no reward. kouta would trade it all for another human lifetime, but as he is now, he knows that would mean trampling on his own choices. 

(he can change, but he can never go back to 'before'. no one else tells kouta this, not mai, who dances to music they can both hear but which only _she_ can feel, and not kaito, whose flowers abide by the seasons he never fully experiences or understands. despite the ache, he holds these words close, and when they prompt him to, he cries and doesn't pretend otherwise. as a human and as a god, kouta is keenly aware of the things he has no power to change, and the things he does.)

kouta never wants takatora to feel this -- _helpless_ but _responsible_ , unable to make the right decisions -- again. once was enough, and if they'd had more time in the forest of helheim, maybe kouta could have thanked him then, too.

they have said far too few words to each other, been unkind and cowardly, made decisions with fear and finality breathing down their necks, and given voice to their convictions without meeting each other's eyes. there is so much that kouta wishes had been different, so much that he wants to change about what little they had.

takatora said that kouta had found him an option outside of despair. _hope_ , in fewer words to hide behind. kouta thinks it equal parts gift and curse, like remembering how takatora's hand felt in his, like having a corner in between worlds just for the two of them. 

(the sand and the sea and the sun that never sets are a poor but soothing consolation, so kouta appreciates these, too. they've walked in step with each other with the world ending around them, a stroll down a beach cradled between their hearts is just fine.)

he only wants (and 'only' is a paradoxical exaggeration) for takatora to be some semblance of alright. none of them who survived helheim would ever _be_ alright, but -- they _try_ , and they turn their strength away from surviving and towards _living_ , and kouta wants that for takatora, too. for the man who granted a selfish god's wish, he wants less sleepless nights, less hoarding responsibilities, less second guessing his failures.

it's -- a _lot_ to ask. even without the omniscience of two other hearts filled to bursting with love and faith, kouta knows what he wants is nearly impossible. incomprehensible, for a man who would have carved six million tally marks on his shield and battled that way to the end.

kouta wants more for him than the zawame he was willing to destroy to save and the mantle of a failed messiah suffering through atonement. 

kouta doesn't want a servant in takatora. 

(but he wonders if he's the only one whose choice matters about that.)

(kouta glimpses the sight of takatora drinking with his sister, a plate of crumbs and stray frosting between them. takatora hasn't taken his coat off, and kouta has stared at him long enough to notice the invisible hands holding his shoulders taut. 

he makes a choice.)

they make sandcastles together, at kouta's insistence. he counts on muscle memory to get them through most of it, but that is maybe an overestimation of both of them. 

"it's not a complicated procedure," takatora reassures him. when their first few tries crumble within moments, he concedes, "this might be what a mental block looks like." it certainly feels that way to kouta: the sand clumped together between their fingers could definitely be, at the very least, a passable castle base, if only they knew what they were doing, exactly.

"that, or we just don't have the right tools." he grabs at takatora's hands, guiding them to form a perimeter around the sand structure. takatora's taken his suit jacket off and loosened the buttons at his shirt cuffs, and kouta can feel how his palms have gone clammy as he holds them. he wonders if takatora can feel his hands trembling as he presses down on takatora's hands to shape the base of their castle.

 _stay still_ , kouta thinks at him. takatora tenses, but that lasts only for a moment, and kouta drinks up the sight of his shoulders dipping, the line of them curving under the unspoken command. _good_. 

the base gets some more handfuls of sand before kouta takes off for the seashore. as the waves lap at his feet, he looks back at takatora again, at the concentrated effort he makes to sit still and hold himself steady. kouta lets the satisfaction he feels ebb from him in waves, and hopes it reaches takatora.

he comes back with cupped hands and hope, and spills both over the mound of sand and takatora's hands holding it in place. with his own hands, kouta pulls takatora's from their guarded form; they're cold, and kouta rubs his thumbs in circles in takatora's palms to warm them.

together, they watch the structure. after a beat, it remains standing -- and kouta cheers, and laughs, and squeezes takatora's hands in his before letting go and giving in to the impulse to do a back handspring (or three) of victory.

he lands on his feet and looks at takatora, and this time, he's ready for the thought - the _intentions_ \- barreling their way at him. 

_i should be kneeling for you_

kouta still doesn't quite understand it, but he doesn't shy away from the feeling takatora projects without a conscious will -- instead, he gives him an answer:

_you can, if you want to. if that's what gives you_

( _happiness_ isn't the word. takatora's happiness is in far simpler things, this kouta is sure of. simple things, masquerading as difficult things. zawame, resplendent at sunrise, in a quiet, gentle way. micchy, saying he'd be out for the afternoon, right around the time the dance shows start. akira, speaking to him without the burden of the kureshima name. charmant in the busy afternoon, drupers just before closing. these things make takatora happy.

kouta doesn't covet takatora's happiness. that's his to find. 

but takatora's peace -- _that_ , he selfishly claims for himself)

_some peace of mind._

he waits for takatora to react in some way - to reply, or to brush off the feeling. the waves and the sun have stilled as kouta commits the moment to both of them.

and he sees it the instant it happens -- how can he not, when he watches takatora so much? -- the way takatora freezes and scrambles in small, contained movements. around them, the waking world encroaches, and kouta does nothing to stop it.

kaito, then and now, is an aggravating but not unwelcome presence. he watches his old teammates with the persistence of a possessive bird of prey, he teaches trees to flower and grow, he keeps his baron threads (which, mai and kouta also do, but they're an omnipotent-ish existence and he's a _tree_ ) and his careless scowl, and he looks down at kouta like he's still calling him naive in his head. 

"i also say it outloud."

he also says it outloud. because it's true.

"it's less true some days."

"that," kouta drawls, swinging himself over another branch, "is possibly the nicest thing you've ever said to me. including the time you told me about micchy and i was too thick to understand."

"it's to make a point." kaito is very fond of using sharp objects - material or otherwise - to do so. he sits with his back against the tree trunk and his legs crossed, to make room for kouta's urge to hang upside down by his legs, and also, so that he looks more balanced than kouta feels.

"today is _not_ one of those days."

"go figure."

"as if i'd ever do your thinking for you, kazuraba."

kouta shrugs, putting a period to their dialogue. frankly, it hasn't just been _today_. it's been a couple of days. more than two, but less than a week. the metaphorical door is closed and though kouta can knock and make a nuisance of himself, he doesn't. 

even through the immaterial divide, he can feel takatora's turmoil, and in the guise of letting him think about things alone, without their thoughts bouncing off each other in intimate echoes, kouta has kept himself from exercising godly powers for his own ends. 

it's not paying off as he thought it would.

"your self-doubt is annoying," kaito tells him. it's remarkably straight-up, and kouta hauls himself into a proper sit to acknowledge the fact. "is it?" kaito's raised brow and tilted chin tells him all he needs to know about the answer.

as it turns out, kaito is right, and kouta's just been hedging around what he knows - what he _wants_ \- to do. there's a difficult conversation he knows is waiting for them in the future, but it's never going to get easier if he doesn't get a move on.

"thanks, kaito," he says, and smiles at the indifferent ' _hn_ ' he receives in response.

kouta waits until takatora is closing the door of his room (the one with a bed; takatora has a surplus of rooms, and kouta feels that he's aware _and_ tired of this, on top of just being tired enough that it's easy for kouta to materialize on this plane) before he comes up behind him and folds his hands over his eyes. 

pressed close to takatora's back, his nose in the highest point of the hollow between his shoulder blades, kouta is startled by how comfortable it feels. his arms and toes, stretched to the tips, may offer different opinions, but kouta in this quasi-hug won't hear any complaints. especially not when they're both pulled under in mere moments, their shared dreamscape insistent and potent when kouta opens its gates.

it moves like it misses takatora - a wave of white crashes over them with a soundless roar, a vibration that makes goosebumps breakout on kouta's skin - and kouta can't fault it, in as much as he can't fault himself.

 _this_ , he reminds himself, _is from both of us. all of it._

when their temporary reality steadies, kouta finds himself seated on a particularly large piece of driftwood. at his feet, takatora is on his knees, nearly doubled over. a shudder jars the lines of his shoulders and back, and kouta puts a hand on that rigid curve without thinking.

he _feels_ rather than hears takatora sobbing. tears drop hot in a steady stream on his feet, chased by takatora's lips and tongue. kouta keeps one hand on his back, and the other a fist on his lap. _this_ , he knows, is for himself, and it leaves a taste in his mouth not unlike leaden grief and dried up anger in chocolate.

it proves a fruitless effort soon enough, when takatora comes to rest his forehead against his knee, when his back sags under the leave of some invisible weight. kouta's left hand settles on takatora's head, and he runs his fingers through takatora's hair in hopes of soothing him.

words bubble in kouta's chest and past his lips in quick succession, as if the act of physically half-embracing takatora triggered an effort to do the same with words.

"i don't mind this, you know." he really doesn't, which is only mildly concerning. "you could have just asked -- " _in words_ , but that's giving both of them too much credit. "ah, but that doesn't sound like you, now that i think about it… but see,"

kouta's gaze wanders down, to where takatora's knees have dug into the sand to bear his weight. all of him shakes, tiny tremors from his heaving breaths, and not one part of him is exempted. this half-embrace seems lacking, all of a sudden.

"i don't mind this, not one bit. since you're stressing yourself out again…"

his hands grasp takatora's shoulders, righting him so kouta can tilt his face up. the sunlight makes takatora's red-rimmed eyes squint, and kouta knows any attempt to hold himself back would be the death of him. but, he starts with his first impulse, pressing his lips to his forehead as he murmurs, "you can rest here, takatora."

and rest he does, the light in their shared dreamscape dimming with the evening of his breaths. when kouta pulls back, takatora's eyes are closed and his mouth is parted in what might have been a sleepy murmur of his name. 

kouta returns his hand to takatora's hair, threading his fingers through the soft locks while he watches the barely-there waves. they arrest his attention, like takatora's smile does, their gentle coming and going mimicking the rise and fall of takatora's chest.

they return, gradually, to takatora's room, at the same point in the evening. the carpet is no place to rest, so kouta secures one arm around takatora's shoulders and the other under his knees before heaving himself up to his feet. the bed is near and doesn't take more than a few steps to reach; he doesn't take issue with takatora's weight, but kouta would rather have him sleep through the night on his back despite how comfortable he feels in his arms. 

as gently as he can manage, kouta lays takatora on the undisturbed sheets and, quickly but carefully, removes his jacket and shoes. and then, on a whim that he doesn't even bother shushing, he removes his own. he crawls onto the bed, pushing aside pillows so he can sit up against the headboard. and then, still carefully so he wouldn't disturb takatora's sleep, he moves takatora's head to his lap.

this, kouta is unafraid to admit, is just for _him_. 

with takatora's cheek resting against his worn jeans and the line of his shoulders relaxing visibly in between breaths, kouta feels anchored for the first time in days. 

he stays until takatora stirs awake, until sunlight floods his room.

"kaito said you were being 'exceptionally thickheaded' the other day." mai's best impression of kaito's _gravitas_ is flawless, and she and kouta share a laugh about it before he wilts under her pointed gaze. not even asking about micchy's college plans are enough to distract her now.

"yeah, but, i fixed it!" kouta insists, hands waving in a pacifying gesture. mai, smart enough even before becoming a god, doesn't buy it and imitates another of kaito's piercing looks. it's especially powerful, or kouta's just especially weak against it -- whichever it is, he's sitting beside mai with their feet in a body of water in moments, ready and honest. 

"so, i got takatora to sleep more."

"that's good news," mai says, and they watch a swimming little critter sniff around their toes for a second before kouta continues.

"and, i, uh, figured out a few things! important things, for both of us, but takatora's still not all about it, despite it coming from him in the first place."

a warm hand comes to rest on top of his, and kouta is grateful for it. mai nods at him, coaxing him along.

"but we… haven't exactly _talked_." 

mai squeezes his hand. "kouta," she says, benevolent but not likely to take shit, "please tell me you didn't kiss takatora without his permission."

kouta nearly jumps out of his skin, which is confusing because he _knew_ that that was what mai was going to say. mai is just as surprised as he is, and she peers at him when his chin digs into his sternum as he avoids meeting her eyes.

"you do know that you want to kiss him, right?" it's her tone that gets him, which is another heavy-hitter in her artillery. kouta straightens up and twists his hand in hers so they're holding each other's hands properly.

"i'm not _five_ , mai, i know what this is!"

"so you _didn't_ kiss him," mai repeats, concern and curiosity plain as day on her face.

"i haven't." biting the inside of his cheek, kouta continues, " _yet_."

above them, the tree branches bloom violent sprays of delicate pink petals. 

"i think that means 'congratulations'." kouta shrugs, mai's guess is always better than his when it comes to kaito. he yells a 'thanks!' up at the tree, anyway.

the thing is, kouta has no idea where to go from here. there's no option where he brushes off what he'd started with that one wordless command, so he's left with starting the conversation himself or waiting for takatora to get a clue.

(the latter is appealing for reasons that feed only kouta's desire not to fuck things up and nothing else.)

as it happens, the plan (or lack thereof) is thrown out the window when, the next time the dreamscape ( _takatora_ , it's _takatora_ doing this) invites him over, takatora wanders onto the beach and sits himself at kouta's feet after saying hello.

"i had a strange dream," takatora says. he's not quite leaning on the driftwood kouta is seated on, but his side is pressed pointedly against kouta's leg, so what he understands from that is, that takatora wants to be right there and also, the talk is happening _now_.

"sorry about the sand on your pants," kouta apologizes, misaligned but still in context. "but also, i'm not -- too sorry about," he scrambles less elegantly than takatora, and ends up trailing off while looking at takatora's face, at the absence of dark smudges under his eyes and the inviting curve of his mouth (where his gaze lingers, guiltlessly but not unselfconsciously).

"the dry-cleaners weren't too mad at me," takatora says, they'd dealt with worse and he'd at least made excuses instead of just throwing the garment bag down in shame and running. the man tells jokes with such a straight face, kouta wonders if he knows how cute he's being.

takatora's mouth twitches. "kouta," he says, "about that dream."

prompted by impulse and the growing furrow between takatora's brows, kouta reaches out and brushes takatora's hair from his face. the kiss he'd pressed to his forehead left no mark, but they both remember it. kouta lets his fingers comb through takatora's hair as he talks.

"it's as real as you and me, when we're here." there's no sense of rejection coming from takatora, only curiosity and some form of nervousness that rolls in kouta's stomach in anxious circles -- it's relieving, at the same time mildly frightening. 

"that goes for what you said as well, then?"

here, in their dreamscape, their thoughts aren't exactly their own. they can put up barriers, but even that is just like a pane of glass between two halves of the same room. kouta feels takatora's uncertainty, his shame and doubt, and though he knows just thinking and feeling his answer would be enough, kouta still says it out loud.

"yeah. i don't mind this -- " takatora at his feet, the back of his neck warm under kouta's hand, subservience in it's gentlest form, "and you shouldn't beat yourself up about it, either, i mean, because i want it, too." 

kouta doesn't want a servant in takatora. but he does want to take care of him, in whatever way he needs taking care of. 

under his thumb, kouta feels takatora swallow -- a breath, the absolute certainty of kouta's words, some half-formed denial -- and then, because he also wants to, kouta asks:

"can i kiss you?"

he swears the whole dreamscape freezes for a moment, the sun and the breeze and the waves seizing up as takatora hears his question and feels his intent in full force.

 _if you want to_ , is the general, tremulous sentiment he projects, and kouta presses, mentally and physically, his hand moving to tilt takatora's face up, his thoughts insistent.

"i need a _yes_ or a _no_." kouta pauses, then adds, "or an _i want you to_ ," which is entirely different and makes his toes curl in anticipation (he tries to hold that bit back, akin to pulling a thread-bare curtain over his side of the glass).

he watches takatora break their mutually held gaze to glance at his mouth, before raising his eyes again. he has to work to lie in this, their private corner between worlds. kouta hopes he won't, and this feeling he lays bare for takatora to notice.

overhead, the sun gentles, and beyond them, the waves hush into whispers. kouta watches takatora's mouth quirk into something like a smile, gentle and wavering, but undeniably there. and then, in kouta's periphery, he sees takatora reaching up to the hand he hadn't realized he'd been clutching takatora's shoulder with. his fingertips are points of heat on the back of kouta's hand.

takatora angles his face a little higher, and says, "i want you to."

the impulse kouta gives into echoes in both of them.

first is: a press of lips, eyes half-lidded. kouta chases the tender feeling of takatora's mouth giving way to his insistence. second: another press, a shared breath. the third time is when kouta gets to taste him, and be explored in return, and before he knows it he's knelt on the sand, crowding takatora against the driftwood.

takatora allows him, but more importantly, he turns his own hunger to kouta: his hands clutch at kouta's back and every other breath he can spare is a breath of kouta's name. it makes kouta just a little bit delirious, a little bit more eager to trail kisses down takatora's throat and taste the pulse that beats wildly there.

it's going to leave a mark. kouta wants it to, and takatora, who moves to accommodate him better, wants it, too.

some time after their frenetic energy had passed and left them exchanging softer kisses between bruised lips and the dark bruise on takatora's neck, kouta says, "keep it long."

it's not a request, or if it is, kouta isn't entertaining a refusal of it. he has a hand in takatora's hair, fingers brushing through it. occasionally, his nails graze over takatora's scalp. it should feel unpleasant, or at least strange, but takatora simply lets him, eyes shut and all his lines drowsy and satiated in relaxation.

he hums when kouta repeats himself. it's sort of a _why_ , not exactly a _no_. reading the question in the lift of takatora's brow, kouta explains, in words he hopes are simple enough to survive takatora's mental acrobatics: "i like it like this."

kouta watches as takatora's eyes flutter open, as he fixes his gaze on kouta. "demanding, aren't we?" his voice is breathless and barely dissenting, and his mouth is a lovely, kiss bitten-red. 

_i will._

"good."

**Author's Note:**

> notes:
> 
> \- not beta'd bc it wouldnt allow it
> 
> \- the events of 47/the movies are semi-complied with: aside from handwaving armored rider jam (bc im not about to distract myself w/ too much world building), the sacred tree has been replanted, takatora did Not go to america for a few days (this trip could have been an email), kaito is very obviously Not passed on... i have not spared a single thought to the megahex. im sorry. 
> 
> \- the only song i listened to while writing the latter monstrous half of this was nee, rain by soraru from the 2017 live yumemiru sekai no arukkata
> 
> \- initially, okay, the quote went: "you can worship a god on your feet or on your knees _or on your back_ " and yeah it sounds. it sounds horny and i wanted to write it that way but then kouta got his way and like takatora, im powerless. it turned out alright though, i think? yeah, yeah.


End file.
